


Closer Than They Appear

by thatfangirl



Category: Real Person Fiction, Rent
Genre: Doppelcest, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-06
Updated: 2006-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatfangirl/pseuds/thatfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Idina's gaze sweeps up the tight t-shirt to the woman's face, her hand spasms before pulling sharply on the bartender's sleeve.  He turns away from the stage and doesn't startle, doesn't ask if that's her twin, doesn't notice at all.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer Than They Appear

**Author's Note:**

> As may be inferred from the presence of one Maureen Johnson, this is a work of fiction and does not purport to be a factual representation of Idina Menzel's life. Maureen, meanwhile, was created by Jonathan Larson.
> 
> Thanks to waterdaughter for beta-ing.

Idina is swirling the dregs of her third martini when she hears it: "Last night, I had a dream." She twists toward the club's small stage: hanging from the belt of the woman standing there is a cowbell. When Idina's gaze sweeps up the tight t-shirt to the woman's face, her hand spasms before pulling sharply on the bartender's sleeve. He turns away from the stage and doesn't startle, doesn't ask if that's her twin, doesn't notice at all. She reaches down to her thigh and pinches as hard as she can. The pain is undeniable, so she pushes her glass at him. "Get me another."

When the woman flounces backstage after a smattering of applause, Idina follows her. The dressing room isn't hard to find and she doesn't bother to knock.

"Hey—" The squawk chokes off as the woman sees her. A slow, easy smile curls her lips. "Hi," she says as she approaches, "I'm Maureen."

"The drama queen," Idina replies automatically, and Maureen's smile pulls into a rictus before she decides to laugh.

"You saw the show," she says. "I noticed you at the bar, watching."

Idina just stares at her. Is this what she looks like from behind the mirror? How wide her jaw is, how sharp her cheekbones, how full her lips.

Maureen reaches around Idina to close the dressing room door. "Liked what you saw?" she asks, resting her fingertips on Idina's hip.

Idina's hand curves over Maureen's shoulder, thumb against her neck. She remembers being this woman eight times a week, enacting this caricature of a performer at her most needy. Maureen swallows and the ridges of her throat move beneath the ridges of Idina's thumb. Idina grabs the hand at her hip and turns it over, pulling it close to compare the swirl of their fingerprints.

"Reading my palm?"

"Don't talk," Idina orders, releasing her. She circles Maureen, searching for a flaw. Her fingers skim down Maureen's back until they catch on her belt. "Who are you?" she asks, but Maureen must have taken her directive seriously because she doesn't respond.

She takes Maureen's hands and presses them against the door; Maureen arches against her and Idina's narcissism must exceed even Maureen's because she moans. Her hands slide down Maureen's arms, then slip over her shoulders to cover her breasts. Maureen's nipples push into her palms and her own tighten in empathy. She leans across Maureen's back, tongue darting against her neck. She tastes like sweat and shampoo, and like herself.

Maureen bucks impatiently and Idina obliges, pulling her hands back to roll her nipples. Maureen throws her head back against Idina's shoulder, and Idina uses not-quite kisses to taste more of her neck. Maureen lifts a hand from the door to cup Idina's ass, pulling them together. "God—"

"Shh," Idina interrupts, reaching for Maureen's belt buckle. Maureen hasn't bothered with panties, so she doesn't bother with teasing. As her fingers find Maureen's clit, the arm supporting them collapses, swinging them into the door.

"Fuck!"

Her other hand covers Maureen's mouth. She slips her fingers lower, slicking inside, and she can feel Maureen's mouth moving against her palm, small muffled moans. Her fingers curl, pressing insistently while Maureen jerks against the heel of her hand. She knows every twitch, and she isn't surprised when Maureen's teeth click together, catching a bit of her skin in between.

Maureen is still trembling when Idina cleans her fingers on the back of her tight t-shirt. "Going to tell Joanne about this?" she asks, her other hand sliding down Maureen's mouth to her neck.

"I don't know," Maureen says, turning in Idina's parody of an embrace. "Going to tell Taye?"

Idina feels her hand slip off Maureen's body. She knows. How can she know who is she what is she runs slipshod through Idina's mind until Idina is running, out of the dressing room, out of the club, her shoes slapping against the wet pavement until she is a block away. She falls to her knees and loses the martinis to the gutter. Her throat aches: she digs her fingers into her thighs and knows this is no dream.


End file.
